


Unfogging the Future

by Naidhe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divination, F/M, Mystery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naidhe/pseuds/Naidhe
Summary: Lavender takes one step forward and – just like the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, the drop of a pebble – Hogwarts is left behind. There's no jump, no flashes of light, no whirlwinds of disconnected images. Just one little step; behind stood her war and in front stands 1947. "Huh," she says to herself, "didn't see this in the tea leaves."





	1. A Little Step Backwards

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Rated M because of (technically) substance abuse. Also, Tom Riddle is around, so some murder. And he's hot, so a bit of explicit content.
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything Harry Potter belongs to J. and to whomever she's sold the rights to (which, sadly, doesn't include me). I don't earn a single cent from this, but it still makes me happy.
> 
> This story has six chapters and is fully written. I'll be posting once every four days until finished. It's very fast-paced and not my usual style, be warned.

**A Little Step Backwards**

Lavender opens the door and she doesn't know what she's expecting, but it's not a bunch of people drawing chalk lines on the floor. Hermione raises her head and her eyes widen. Professor McGonagall screams "don't" and Professor Lupin shouts "wait" and Ron steps forward with raised hands.

It's too late, though. Inertia drives her ahead.

She takes one step forward and – just like the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, the drop of a pebble – Hogwarts is left behind. There's no jump, no flashes of light, no whirlwinds of disconnected images. Just one little step; behind stood her war and in front stands 1947.

"Huh," Lavender says to herself, "didn't see this in the tea leaves."

She doesn't guess the year immediately, since the change of locations is far more evident. Mostly because she was just running through a barrage of curses and now there's a busy, cheerful street where the Battle of Hogwarts should be. She notices the year is also off rather quickly; there'd be no reason for so many _old-fashioned_ robes and happy smiles on a stroll through Voldemort's Diagon Alley.

Lavender stands in the middle of the street, modern school robes charred and ripped and stained with blood and dirt. Her right pocket holds her wand, two galleons, seven sickles and a knut. Her left, a half-used bar of pink lipstick and a hair tie.

It doesn't take a genius to guess that she's in trouble.

She walks ahead, because no one ever fixed anything by standing dumbfounded while looking at their pockets. Diagon Alley, she notices, has changed very little. Different businesses under different names, but the same kind and even in the same spots. She window-shops while wondering how long a young witch can survive on little more than two galleons.

Not very, that's how long.

She wanders around until she stands in front of a run-down little shop. "Attendant wanted," a hung sing reads. There's no name to the business, that she can see. She hesitates for a second. It's in Knockturn Alley, right in front of Borgin and Burkes – not the most scenic shop to work in. But she's seventeen and she doesn't have her O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s and she probably doesn't even officially exist yet.

She walks in.

There's nothing but little boxes on the dusty shelves in the front shop, and they're all closed. The large counter takes up a good fourth of the tiny room and there's little else to fill the space. It's not easy to deduce what sort of business this is.

She has to wait for twenty minutes. She doesn't mind, because she takes the chance to flip through a discarded fashion magazine that either has been there a long time or means she's landed in the late forties.

Tight-waist robes and victory rolls – not the worst decade to live in.

A woman covered in dark shawls comes out from the curtained door behind the counter. She doesn't look happy to see her. Then again, the age lines around her scowling mouth tell her she doesn't smile often.

"What do you want to know?" she asks her roughly.

Lavender thinks the woman could, indeed, use a polite attendant.

"I'm here for the job," she says.

"Can you read and write?" the woman asks.

Lavender nods, and just like that she's hired. Her salary is of four galleons a week, and she's allowed to keep tips if given. Whether that's high or low according to the time's standards she doesn't know, but in a week she'll still be twice as rich as she currently is.

"What do you do?" Lavender asks after she's taken her seat behind the counter.

"I _See_ ," the woman says. "Past, present, future – whatever pays."

"You read the tea leaves?" Lavender asks, perking up.

The woman – Cassandra Vablatsky, she'll soon learn – laughs a coarse, harsh laugh.

"Sure – If you pour enough firewhyskey on them, they might tell you the _truth_ ," she answers.

Madam Cassandra allows her to sleep in a tiny dwelling upstairs, which barely fits a bed, a table and chair and a kitchenette. She needs to squeeze inside the adjoined bathroom to have a shower. The only window she has faces the cramped back-street, which is worse than Knockturn Alley itself; she can hear hags whispering and men fighting at nights. Neither of which is at all reassuring.

In her first weeks in the forties, she'll cry more than she has in her short life. Loneliness is worse even than her dire room – she'll miss her family and Parvati and the resistance that fought against the Carrows. That first day, however, she pushes through with all the Gryffindor bravery she possesses.

Not a single client comes.

Her second day starts a bit more uplifting. A couple rays of sunshine filter through the narrow Knockturn Alley in the first hours of the morning, and it makes it look more charmingly decadent than downright nightmare-inducing.

She opens the shop – hangs an 'Open' sign and tries to tidy up the uninviting front door – and sees a young man doing the same for Borgin and Burkes. He smiles at her, and with just that she knows he's the most gorgeous person she's ever seen. She walks inside feeling cheered, fantasizing of holding his dark curls between her legs.

The first client arrives a little after ten. It's a middle-aged woman covered in jewellery bigger than Lavender's perky nose. She asks for the Madam, and Lavender knows to let her walk in.

"If they're minor clients," Madam Cassandra told her yesterday, "deal with them yourself."

"How do I know if they're minor?" Lavender asked.

"They are if they're satisfied with you."

And so Lavender learns which clients are to be taken seriously and which need only "to hear what they want to hear." Not that she feels very confident in her own abilities to grant them that. So, that evening, Lavender shares her worries with the Madam. She gives her three precious pieces of advice, which will help her survive the forties in ways she, right now, cannot even imagine.

Number one is to speak with ten times the certainty she feels.

Number two is to be as evasive as allowed.

And number three is to use the _fumes_ whenever in doubt.

"The fumes?" Lavender asks.

The Madam opens one of the boxes closest to the counter and removes a long, narrow pipe. She fills its bowl with three drops of liquid – blue, yellow and red, poured from dusty, little bottles. She presses the mix with a tamper and a whirl of colour lifts. She lights it with a spark of her wand, and takes a test draw. She slowly exhales a cloud of purplish fumes.

She then passes the pipe to Lavender. She inhales three times.

She closes her eyes and sees music and whispers and the howl of the wind. She hears acidity and saltiness and chocolate pudding. She touches reds and yellows and light. She tastes cold and roughness and velvet.

She could know anything right now.

"The Inner Eye is only _true_ when not occluded," Madam Cassandra says.

Lavender suddenly understands the strong incense in Professor Trelawney's classes. That, and the troubling cherry addiction.

Her third day starts worse, because it's raining and muddy and she doesn't want to ruin her only pair of shoes. The handsome man has opened before her, and the doors to Borgin and Burkes are tinted with dirt and covered with the posters of a missing girl – they completely hide the inside.

No sane person ventures their alley in this weather, and so Lavender waits behind the counter until it's time to brew tea for Madam Cassandra.

"Do you only use the fumes, Madam?" she asks. "Never the crystal balls? Palmistry?"

"What matters, girl," she answers, taking a sip, "is that you try to _see_. The means aren't important – the Inner Eye tells the _truth_."

Lavender doesn't quite understand. Professor Trelawney taught them with rules and instructions.

The Madam can see her doubts. She stands and takes another box – this one from the upper shelf. Inside lays a crystal ball more opaque than Lavender is used to. The Madam places it between them on the counter, and then fetches a large bottle. The label on it is in Russian, but Lavender doesn't need to understand the language to tell it's strong liquor – the smell gives it away.

"Drink," she is ordered.

She does. And when she finishes her glass, she's served another.

She looks into the ball and _sees_ shifting, blurry shapes. The figure of a woman collapsing. The dark shadow of a man. The number seven. A crowned boy growing taller, larger. A little girl on a broom.

She asks the Madam what all those mean.

"How would I know?" she answers, and leaves.

On her fourth day, she gets her first minor client.

"I love him," Joyce Fawley says, tears on her eyes. "Oh, but the bad tongues… The rumours… They say he is _evil_. But is he? Such a sweet man?"

Lavender offers her tea, and takes her own with a generous pour of absinthe.

"Should I marry him?" the client asks.

Lavender turns the client's cup once.

"Anchor," she says, "steadiness and rest."

She turns it a second time.

"Ivy," she sees, "faithfulness in love."

She turns it a third time.

"Moon," she ends, "romantic attachment."

The young woman thanks her and leaves the shop already making wedding plans – asks her to call her Joyce Bellchant the next time they see each other.

As the Madam says, always tell the clients what they want to hear.

The week passes and Lavender uses her first pay to buy herself a couple outfits suitable to the epoch, and a new pair of shoes. She's tired of covering her school uniform with shawls – they make her look old. She learns, satisfied, that her salary isn't half as bad as she'd feared. She's also attended a couple more clients, and she's allowed to keep that pay – even if it's just a few sickles per reading, everything helps.

Her second week starts with a slightly more optimistic feel. She likes her new robes, and that always puts her in a good mood. She should save for a new lipstick.

One of the important clients – the rich ones – comes back looking for the Madam on a day she's not available. She won't take a no for an answer, though, because she _needs_ to know this, it cannot wait.

"Aren't you the apprentice?" Mrs Plunkett asks, "Try your best."

Lavender gets her pipe, inhales three times, and Mrs Plunkett's eyes shine with acknowledgement – she must have seen the Madam do the same.

"When will my husband pass?" she asks.

Lavender tries not to wonder in which circumstances such a knowledge could be _urgent_ – she's already learnt divination is a business of answers, and not questions.

She opens another box from the stacked shelves and takes out a leather bag filled with small bones. She hopes they belong to animals and not little children, but she's never dared to ask. The bones are the most precise – which doesn't necessarily mean correct – means of divination. If Mrs Plunkett wants the exact date, Lavender will give it to her.

Because she already knows it. She learnt to gossip looking at family trees at a young age, and she doesn't have a half-bad memory. Osterick Plunkett will die in about three weeks – Christmas day, easy to remember – of a heart attack. Although his wife's insistence makes her suspicious of the diagnosis.

She gives her the date and Mrs Plunkett leaves looking satisfied.

Two weeks after, Lavender gets one of the _disturbing_ visitors.

"My dear daughter," the distraught man says. "I need to talk to her. Please – _please_ help me talk to her."

Lavender was shaken the first time, but she's slowly getting used to the clientele.

"We're Seers in here, Sir. Necromancy is two streets down and to the left."

The man leaves just as desperate as he came in, and Lavender knows the hag two streets down will make huge profit tonight.

Christmas approaches and Lavender strolls often through Diagon Alley, trying to warm herself up with the festive mood. She buys herself a little present – a bag of Fudge Flies, a thicker coat and a couple obscure books on Divination. She doesn't think she'll need them, but they'll look good on the shop shelves.

She eats mince pie with Madam Cassandra, and they enjoy a couple glasses of mulled wine. Lavender learns Palmistry using the Madam's hands – her life line is the longest she's ever seen. The Madam laughs and tells her nothing is ever fixed, that her husband had a line just as long and choked on a pumpkin pasty.

"Seeing the _truth_ is harder than measuring the length of a line," she tells her. "Never trust a prediction anyone with eyes could make."

"Only the Inner Eye can see the _truth_ ," she repeats what she's learnt.

Palmistry doesn't make much sense, she decides.

Lavender wakes up the day after Christmas to an insistent knock on the door of the shop. She covers herself with her new cloak and, nursing a headache from too much mulled wine, squints at Mrs Plunkett through the blinds.

She's dressed in a funeral gown. She leaves Lavender a tip big enough to get herself a decent wardrobe, and as many lipstick bars as colours exist.

Lavender uses the chance to open up the shop early. It's freezing cold outside, and she gets a good chance to practice her heating charms. She sets the new books on the stands, together with some old ones she convinced Madam Cassandra to let her expose. She's prettying up the front shop when a visitor walks in.

It's the gorgeous young man from Borgin and Burkes. Lavender almost falls from the stool she got herself onto. She hopes he can't see how flustered she is.

"Good morning," he says. "My name is Tom Riddle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird pairing, weird fic. Came up with the whole plot on a night I couldn't sleep, so this is the result of 5h of insomnia. I rather like it though, so I hope someone enjoys reading it :)


	2. A Detour to Look Around

He doesn't look like the sort who'd like his fortune told. For one, he's dressed in well-cared-for, old clothes – he can't have much money to spare. Also, the lack of curiosity in his gaze as he glances around the tiny shop tells her he's there for something else.

"My name is Tom Riddle," he says. "I work for Borgin and Burkes."

Ah, so it's business.

"Could I speak with Madam Vablatsky?"

He's not a rich client, so the answer is "no," no matter how politely he asks or how prettily he bats his eyelashes.

"I'm sorry," Lavender says, "I'm afraid the Madam is indisposed today. Can I help you instead?"

His smile gets even warmer as he leans his elbows on her counter, getting close as if to share a confidence.

"Mr Burke is very interested in making a purchase," he explains. "I'm certain Madam Vablatsky would like to hear his offer."

Lavender has been inside the storage room and, given the sheer amount of tarot cards, crystal balls and chicken bones stashed in there, she's confident in her belief the Madam hasn't sold anything in her life.

No, she wouldn't like to hear the offer – and Lavender isn't dumb enough to ask. She still promises to forward the message.

"I didn't get your name," he says, right before leaving.

"Lavender Brown," she answers.

"Thank you for everything, Lavender. I'm in your hands."

The way he says it makes her want to risk the Madam's wrath. But she's learnt her lesson well – never let a client in if he isn't there for a real, expensive foretelling.

Lavender has an easy week of drinking tea and eating biscuits while reading the Prophet's society pages – the main news started her Monday with the report of a young girl's violent murder, and those tales make her fear the dark corners of Knockturn Alley when she goes out.

She reads that Joyce Fawley has finally married Gifford Bellchant, and that Mrs Plunkett has inherited a considerable fortune from her late husband. She gets the feeling that everyone she knows – even if only minor acquaintances – is moving on with life. She feels a bit stuck in her little shop. She's learning to predict other's futures, but what about her own? She has no dreams, no aspirations and no friends to share them with.

She gets used to her new life, but the loneliness doesn't quite leave her.

Friday morning, she's visited by Tom again.

"The Madam isn't interested in any offer," she tells him.

"That's too bad," he says, sitting down in front of her counter. "Mind if I wait here, see if I can convince her otherwise?"

His smile is disarming. But Madam Cassandra is scary, and so Lavender is forced to decline.

"I'm afraid only clients are allowed to stay," she says.

Certainly not vendors, nor other charlatans, using the Madam's words.

"Then, could I ask for a reading?"

There's certainly no reason to turn down a client, minor or not. So Lavender pours him some tea, and takes out a bottle of the Russian liquor the Madam favours. He raises a brow at the smell, but makes no comment. They both drink their own cups, and Lavender then takes his in her hands.

She's practiced a lot. She thinks she can do a better reading than she did for Joyce Bellchant. She lets the alcohol muddle her worldly senses, and the answers seem to flow to her mouth.

"The Hyades," she says, "riches but little happiness."

She turns the cup.

"Cross," she frowns, "a bad omen."

She turns it once more.

"Seven. The number seven."

Tom looks more curious than worried.

"What does it mean?" he asks her.

Lavender is reminded of Madam Cassandra's words. _How would I know?_ The words are supposed to have bigger meaning to him than to herself, but it _is_ her prediction – she sees some _truth_ in it. She can go deeper.

"Seven isn't a good number for you," she tells him. "It'll bring only bad luck."

"And riches?" he asks, amused.

"And little happiness," Lavender confirms.

Tom doesn't believe her, but she's used to it. She gets _scepticals_ every now and then, and as long as they pay she doesn't really mind if they're laughing at her within their heads.

"That'll be three sickles," she tells him.

He seems surprised he has to pay, but does put the coins on her counter. Tom stays around until he is needed back at his own shop. He's pleasant company, but he asks too many questions Lavender has to invent answers to.

She tells him she's Madam Cassandra's grand-niece. She says she was home-educated by her mother, and later the Madam herself. She makes up stories about her childhood days in a small village near York and exaggerates her passion for Divination.

He tells her it's a pity she missed Hogwarts, but says little about himself.

He doesn't get to see the Madam and, as he leaves, Lavender thinks he probably never will. Madam Cassandra enters through the back door and doesn't deal with anyone she doesn't care for.

Tom comes back two days later. Mr Burke must want whatever the Madam possesses very, very much. Tom is charming, and handsome and a delight to talk to – but Lavender sees through him.

_Always tell the client what he wants to hear._

That's what Tom is doing to her. It seems that whatever you sell – cursed antiques or predictions of the future – retail works the same everywhere.

She'd rather have the handsome man be interested in herself, and not a silly old trinket; realizing this truth stings a bit. The situation reminds her of Ron, more interested in making Hermione jealous than in enjoying their relationship.

However, Lavender works retail too.

So she smiles and answers Tom's questions and lets him evade her own, and with every visit she charges him three sickles for a new reading. She'll buy herself a new pair of Oxfords to get over the disappointment.

In his second visit, she uses the crystal ball. She likes the heavy, opaque one the Madam used to teach her the art. She can tell he's interested in it – an antique, and he deals in them. She pretends not to notice.

The shapes shift and swirl and morph, and it's never easy to read them to someone else.

"Four men," she says, "fading one after the other. The shadow of Death – a bad omen again." Then she hesitates, because what she sees is unexpected. "And a little girl on a broom."

She thinks that perhaps she's done something wrong. That she's focused on herself, instead of him. It is unusual to see such a specific silhouette for two different people.

Tom laughs, and distracts her.

"This is worse than the tea leaves," he says.

"Divination isn't as clear as most would like," she admits. "But only the Inner Eye can see the _truth_."

On Tom's fifth visit, she wants to try the Tarot Cards. She's never used them, and she knows Tom will come back even if she messes up – he's good practice. She reads his tea cup first, because she's offered him tea anyway, and she feels generous enough to gift him this one.

"Another bad omen?" Tom guesses.

Lavender nods.

"A dog at the bottom – a friend needs help," she tells him. "The Grim, a bad omen. And the number seven."

Before she can take out the cards, they are interrupted by two Aurors in full uniform. They enter the shop without knocking, and tell her it's an inspection.

"What for?" she asks.

"Don't you already know?" asks the younger one, mocking.

She's pretty used to this gibe by now.

"We've received an alert for the presence of mind-altering substances," the older one says.

"The Inner Eye alters the common mind," Lavender answers, and the Aurors don't seem to know what to make of it.

They register the shop from top to bottom, opening all the boxes in the room, and even entering the Madam's working space. Lavender lets them. The boxes are charmed so that only herself and the Madam can access the most questionable content.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Tom asks the Aurors, annoyed on her behalf. "Looking for that little girl's murderer, for instance?" he suggests, waving toward the 'missing' posters plastered on the door of his shop.

The younger Auror, who's introduced himself as Dodderige, flushes a dark red. He's obviously proud, and would like to do something of more importance than register dusty shops. Mather, the older Auror, keeps his composure much better.

"Every illegality must be investigated," he tells them. "We have good men on poor Matilda's case, I assure you."

"Can't you tell us what happened to her?" Auror Dodderige asks her. "You see it all, don't you?"

"For three sickles," Lavender tells him, "I'll look into it."

Auror Mather is unamused, and decides to keep searching. Auror Dodderige insists she help. Lavender's senses are still dulled – she just foretold for Tom – and so she doesn't need a new drink to have a go at the bones.

"What do you want to know?" she asks.

"Who killed her. And why."

She blindly takes seven bones from a large bag, all engraved with different symbols. She throws them on the counter, and observes how they fall. For the best possible results, she'd need the fumes – but she's not taking those out now.

"A group," she tells them, as she observes the clustering. "You must look for a group – more than two. Mannaz," she signals at one of the pieces, "men. Zorech," she sees another rune. "A crime of passion, of strong emotion." She looks for more, but the meanings shift and escape her eye. "The rest is uncertain."

The Aurors go without paying and leave a mess behind themselves. They don't believe her either, but she cares way more about her missing three sickles.

"Interesting pieces," Tom says, picking one up and reading the runes. "Knuckle bones. Human?"

"Never asked," she says. "Their origin isn't important – focusing on such earthly things occludes the mind."

Tom nods, and gives it back. He looks a little bit more impressed now than he did when she read the tea leaves. Clients usually do.

"Don't try to buy them," she advises him, "Madam Cassandra won't sell."

Tom laughs.

After that, though, he stops coming. Lavender tries not to feel disappointed when, come Friday, he doesn't show up. She tells herself it was to be expected – she's told him time and time again that the Madam won't deal with Borgin and Burkes. And Tom has to do his job, much like herself.

So she spends her Friday reading the society pages, amused when a marriage she remembers seeing in the family trees is announced. She tries to keep track of what happens and compare it to what she remembers – her knowledge of the future is an asset in her profession.

Arabella Belby comes, dressed in poor robes to hide her identity – not all high-society women want to be seen in her street, or in her shop. Lavender tells her what she knows is true; she will marry well and give birth to five children. She seems disappointed – she wants none, she hates the crying little blighters. That is, she realizes, the problem of knowing too much. She's forgotten the second rule, and forsaken evasiveness.

She watches as Arabella leaves in fury, leaving no tip behind, and still considers it a future investment. One day, when she gives birth to her two boys and three girls, she'll remember Lavender's accuracy.

Better not tell the Madam she lost a rich client, though.

Her good memory for love unions pays well at times, however. She meets Augusta Selwyn, who will one day be Neville's grandmother, on a shopping trip to the apothecary. Lavender is appalled at the quality of hair products in the forties, but remembers how to brew modern potions herself. She's packing gurdyroots when she overhears her talking to another woman.

"Augusta," the woman tells her, "you're blind – Longbottom will marry Eglantine Rosier. You must give up."

Augusta isn't happy to hear that, and the curse she throws toward the older woman speaks for itself. Lavender is rather impressed.

"What?" Augusta asks her when she catches her staring. "Want to comment on my love life as well?"

"He'll marry you," she tells her. "But don't wait for him," she advises. "Propose to him yourself at the Lestrange's midwinter ball, and he'll say yes."

It is a very famous tale, after all – Augusta will be loud and shameless and very, very public. Lavender has heard her grandmother tell the story so many times she could tell Augusta the colour of the dress she'll wear.

"He won't be there," Augusta sniffs. "The Lestranges and the Longbottoms aren't good friends."

"He'll be invited the day before, on the Rosiers insistence," she remembers. "He'll go only to please his aunt Cosima, who's pushing for the union with Eglantine. He'll show his displeasure by dressing in white, angering the traditionalist Lestranges."

Lavender knows it's silly, but she really wants Augusta to believe her. Perhaps she sees her as a link to her time, perhaps she really wants to help Neville be born – he lead Dumbledore's Army against the Carrows and Lavender will forever admire him for that.

"How could you possibly know this?" she asks, too bewildered to be angry at her nosiness.

"I'm a seer," she answers.

Augusta almost curses her out of the apothecary as well. She doesn't have much faith in her profession, apparently.

Lavender works on, cares for her hair and passes most days reading the tea leaves. She doesn't see Augusta again until two weeks later. She looks happier than when they last met as she pushes the door to Madam Cassandra's shop open.

"You were right," she tells her. "You were right about everything – and when I saw him wearing white, and he told me he'd been invited just the day before, I had to try! And It worked. Oh – it worked! How happy I am!"

Lavenders lets young Augusta hug her and relishes the contact. She hasn't been this close to anyone in months. She misses Parvati so much it hurts.

"How can I ever repay you?" Augusta asks.

Before Lavender can answer, she's been payed way too much for what wasn't even a foretell. She feels a bit like a scammer, because Augusta's fate was sealed anyway – she'd have proposed without Lavender's input, and succeeded.

What she gains, however, is not only the galleons to purchase a permit to magically extend her tiny apartment; she also gets one of the coveted rich clients.


	3. A Peek into Another World

Augusta Selwyn comes to get her fortune told often, and doesn't miss the chance to gossip. Did you know the Bellchants had a public spat a couple days ago? Gifford doesn't come home early enough, at times. And did you know Arabella Belby is pregnant with twins? She looks rather upset. And did you know that Lady Smith's sons are squabbling about inheritances, even while the old woman is still alive? Rumours say the Lady is being courted by a young man, and the sons feel threatened.

Lavender enjoys the juicy details of other's lives, and that she gets paid to listen is a great plus.

"What do you think?" Augusta asks, "about Arabella?"

"Three more," Lavender says, and Augusta is pleased by her answer.

She doesn't like Belby either.

Augusta leaves generous tips and speaks well of her to her friends. In the span of a month, Lavender gets her own little circle of patrons. Lady Abbot consults her on matters of money, Erina Ollerton is always in search of a good husband, and Odette Greengrass comes to listen to Lavender as she gazes into the crystal ball.

Madam Cassandra doesn't say much, but Lavender likes to think she approves of her improvement.

When it's been a month and a half since Tom last visited, they meet opening their shops at the same time. He seems happy to see her, and approaches to apologize; Mr Burke is interested in dealing with the Madam, but a new objective now takes precedence.

"So you're sweet talking someone else?" Lavender asks.

Tom laughs.

"I am," he admits, and his candidness softens her a bit, "although I'd rather listen to your foretelling than to her stories."

"Come anytime," Lavender offers, "but I'll still charge you."

Tom promises he will, although he tries to haggle the price.

A week later, on a day Lavender is finally showing off her new Oxfords, she meets a client that will change the way she looks at her current life.

Her name is Hepzibah Smith. She's the most obnoxious old woman Lavender has ever met – and, working behind the front desk, she's met a few. She wears more gold and shiny stones on her form than Lavender has ever seen at the same place. The way she looks at her dainty shop, as if its size is offensive to her eyes, makes Lavender frown.

"Lady Abbot speaks well of you," she says.

She's evidently wondering why.

"I must know my future," she tells her, taking a sit while trying to not touch the chair any more than necessary. "There is a young man – charming, so very handsome! And he is ever so kind to me. But is he honest, girl? Or is he greedy?"

Lavender remembers Augusta's gossip. She doesn't need to have a shot of absinthe to be able to tell what the young man wants from her. She still follows her usual procedure – she chooses the crystal ball, because rich women frown at tea cups.

As if the means even mattered.

She sets the ball in front of her and, before she can lie through her teeth to make the old harpy happy, she sees Tom standing behind the glass window of the front door. Their eyes meet.

Lavender has now spent months slowly erasing the barriers between her mundane sense and the Inner Eye. There are times – precious occasions – in which she uses the fumes and can't quite stop _seeing_ at will. The _truth_ merges with appearances, with her reality, and it slips inside her mind.

Tom Riddle is on the street, looking through her glass door, standing like Death itself. And Lavender knows, with the same certainty she knows the sun will raise again tomorrow, that Lady Smith is going to die.

There is nothing anyone can do to avoid it – her fate is sealed. The Madam always says that nothing is ever set in stone, but she's wrong.

Lavender gazes into the crystal ball and sees the shadow of Death, the figure of a woman collapsing, and the number seven. She lifts her eyes – her earthly ones – to Tom and sees him smile. He'd look lovely if not for the Grim clinging to his back.

She looks back to Lady Smith, who's impatiently waiting for her to speak. Lavender knows she doesn't need to be accurate, because that's one client that will never come back anyways.

"I see a young man smiling," she says to her, "the promise of happiness – he is truthful. But," and that gets her attention, "I also see familial disputes – your sons won't be pleased with the union."

The last bit gives her credibility in the eyes of the woman. She pays – no tip, the stingy old bat – and leaves. Tom has long since disappeared.

Lavender looks at her three sickles. What would the proud Lady Smith say, if she knew that was the value of her own life?

That night Lavender sleeps poorly. Her instincts tell her the woman's death is unavoidable, but she can't help but wonder if she should have said the truth. Perhaps it's precisely because she thought she couldn't change it, that she kept quiet and thus condemned her.

Self-fulfilling predictions, wasn't it?

The Madam finds her in the morning with deep bags under her eyes and a strong shot of coffee. She, too, is a remarkable seer – she _sees_ right through her.

"Nothing is ever fixed," she says again, "but what one _sees_ , one cannot change."

Lavender feels a little bit better as they sit together and enjoy a bite of treacle tart and a glass of cider. As they chat, Lavender asks her something that's been on her mind for a long time – what does it mean, when she sees the same figures in foretells for two different people?

A little girl on a broom.

The figure of a woman collapsing.

The shadow of Death.

The number seven.

"Never trust a coincidence," is the Madam's answer.

It isn't at all reassuring.

The week flies by and Lavender dreads reading the Prophet every morning – when will Lady Smith's death be announced? She thinks she remembers part of the story. Wasn't it Smith, the woman her grandmother spoke about, that had been killed by a negligent house elf?

Perhaps not, because Tom Riddle certainly has something to do with it.

She sees him again, that Friday. As if that little habit had never been broken, he comes to the shop first thing in the morning. Lavender can't help but think she might see Lady Smith's obituary today. If Tom is back to negotiate with the Madam, he must already have whatever Burke wanted from Smith.

She's surprised to hear him bring the topic up.

"Lady Smith is pleased with you," he tells her.

Lavender would have sworn the old bat couldn't feel such a positive emotion.

"How is she?" she asks.

The way Tom's eyes shine – the hint of a flicker of red – tells her she's walking on slippery ground.

"Very well," Tom assures her. "Just made a little fortune getting rid of an old family trinket."

"Mr Burke must be pleased as well," she says.

"He is. And so am I," he smiles, "I much prefer your company."

Lavender hopes this isn't the same he used to say to Lady Smith.

Tom sits in front of her and takes a large ring off his finger. It's golden – which is strange, since Tom's economy seems to be more strained than hers – and holds a large, black stone. A symbol adorns it: a triangle, a circle and a stick.

"What do you see?" he asks her, handing her the ring.

Lavender is a bit confused. She's never been asked to make predictions of an object. She takes it, glances at her crystal ball, and sees nothing. She frowns. Tom looks on, curious. She wonders if he actually expects her to see something.

She doesn't like the way he looks a little smug, as if she's confirmed his suspicions.

She stands and reaches for her pipe. As she pours the liquids and tampers them Tom goes from mildly bored to expecting. Lavender draws long and deep, exhales colourful fumes, and the world twists. She looks at the ring and hears and sees and feels it.

She lets her fingers caress the golden band.

"Seven," she says. "The second of seven. The shadow of Death. The broken one."

She touches the stone.

Reality crumbles as millions of millions of voices scream in her mind. Lavender sees people she's never seen raising toward her as she flickers in an out of a world that isn't hers. She feels their cold hands on her arms, their freezing breath on her nape – they drag her down with them.

She faints.

She wakes up in Tom's arms, no longer holding his ring.

"What was that?" she asks him.

"A dark object," he says. "I'm sorry, Lavender. I shouldn't have asked you to look."

"That thing," she whispers, still feeling sick, "won't bring you any good."

Tom nods and, for once, he seems to take her seriously.

After the experience, Lavender has to take a week off. The Madam takes one look at her and tells her she has seen Death, and to not come back down until she feels warm inside again. Lavender spends seven days shivering and dreaming of cold hands and loud voices. In them, she sees Tom deadly pale, wearing a crown. She wakes up sweaty and feeling faint. If the Madam didn't come up to feed her, she wouldn't have enough strength in her to do it herself.

When she feels she can stand without help, Madam Cassandra allows a visitor in. Augusta Selwyn makes her tea and rice porridge and begs her to take care of herself. She's been scared, she says, because the Madam told her Lavender had seen the Other World.

"I'm fine," Lavender lies. "I'll be back to work in a day or two."

Augusta will hear nothing of it. Lavender is firmly ordered to take another week to herself _, or else_. She comes every day to keep her company, though – and perhaps to check she's staying put, and resting in bed. Lavender is grateful to have found someone who cares.

When the second week is over, Lavender is eager to get back to work. She feels cramped in her flat, even if it's significantly larger now. She needs to get some fresh air. So she gets up early and opens the shop and two minutes later she hears Tom knock.

"I was worried," he says. "I am so sorry I caused you such harm. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes," she says, and he doesn't believe her. "I get cold sweats," she admits, "and the shakes. But it's gotten much better."

Tom brews her tea and brings her a warm meal – a peace offering. Lavender knows he's not at fault; not for this. It was obvious he never expected her to succeed, in the first place. She tells him that, and Tom is both surprised and embarrassed.

"I haven't such a big faith in divination," he tells her. "But I know now I was wrong. I shouldn't have tried to test you."

"Don't show me that thing again," she asks him, "and we'll be fine."

Tom visits her regularly for a few weeks. They chat, he brews her tea, and he opens up about himself. He grew up in a muggle orphanage, which certainly explains why he's working in Knockturn Alley. He was a Slytherin, which isn't at all surprising. He enjoyed Charms and Ancient Runes and detested Transfigurations.

"Why?" asks Lavender.

She's seen Tom transfigure himself a more comfortable chair – he's definitely talented.

"Terrible professor," he says. "He didn't like me."

Lavender has a hard time imagining a person who could dislike Tom. Then she remembers what she saw behind Lady Smith, and how Tom and Death seem to share the same space far too often.

She enjoys his company, but she keeps her distance.

One day, Tom doesn't come alone. With him is Argo Avery, a young man of Tom's age – so a bit older than Lavender – who is, apparently, a client.

"My brother's been missing for three days," he tells her.

He sounds distressed and looks ghostly pale, as if he hasn't slept well since. Lavender wonders why his brother's posters aren't all over those of the poor girl who was found death months ago. Perhaps the rich don't like to appear so vulnerable.

"Do you have something of his?" she asks.

He gives her an old pocket watch, one of his brother's – Aldrich – most valued possessions. Lavender recognizes the name. Aldrich Avery is, she believes, Daphne Greengrass' grandfather. He lives long enough to see his granddaughter born, and so she feels relieved in the knowledge he'll be alright.

She grabs the crystal ball and gazes in. The first image strikes her hard – she knows it very well. Tom and Argo stare as she blanches, but she doesn't let herself faint again.

"A snake and a skull," she says.

She's proud that her voice doesn't tremble. It's been months since she last saw the Mark. She understands what it's doing there when Argo, perhaps involuntarily, pulls his left sleeve down.

Tom and Death and the Dark Mark. She doesn't like what her instincts are hinting at.

"The number four," she sees. And then she hesitates once more. "A little girl on a broom."

"Again?" Tom asks. "What does that mean?"

"A connection, most likely."

"Can you try something more precise?" he asks her. "The bones?"

Argo Avery, who has gone quiet during their exchange, suddenly stands.

"I need to leave," he says, and even forgets to get back his brother's watch.

Tom calls after him, to no avail. Avery is gone.

"The readings always make more sense to those involved," Lavender says. "He must have understood."

Tom is not pleased with her answer. He isn't angry at her truth, but at Avery's leaving. She sees it again, stronger, the flicker of red in his eyes.

Red eyes. She's definitely heard of that before, even if she hasn't witnessed it herself.

Who knew Lord Voldemort had been this handsome in his youth.


	4. A First Step Forwards

**A First Step Forwards**

Lavender reads the news of Lady Smith's death and wonders how Tom managed to frame it on the house elf. It's a strange feeling, knowing that a man you have tea with twice a week is leading a murderous gang.

A tad unsettling.

She remembers the first things she _saw_ in 1947.

The figure of a woman collapsing. The dark shadow of a man. The number seven. A crowned boy growing taller, larger. A little girl on a broom.

Lady Smith collapsing. Tom's shadow behind her. The number seven, which follows Tom wherever he goes. Tom as a king, growing in power.

The first thing she saw in the past is a connection to Tom Riddle. Lavender fears its meaning. Can she not escape him? Is she irrevocably tied to him?

She really wonders about the little girl on a broom.

Amidst all her worrying, she gets a respite. Augusta's wedding is approaching, and Lavender is maid of honour – she did help make the union possible, after all. Or not, but Augusta doesn't know that.

Lavender likes weddings. No, really – she _loves_ weddings. They're a perfect chance to put on the gorgeous clothes she can't wear in her everyday life. Plus, they're always an ideal occasion to gossip.

She buys herself a mauve dress with heels to match and conjures a flower crown. She looks beautiful and she might hex anyone who dares say otherwise. She arrives at the venue with time to spare – she really wants to have a look around. As she peeks into the kitchen and makes note of the tasteful decoration of the corridors, she runs into Tom.

He might be Lord Voldemort, but there's no denying he's easy on the eyes.

"Lavender." He sounds surprised.

He doesn't quite ask what she's doing there, but she answers anyway.

"Augusta is a good client."

"Gifford Bellchant is a good friend," Tom says. "He's best man, and insisted I come."

Lavender wonders if she pushed Joyce Bellchant toward the arms of a Death Eater.

"How's Avery?" she asks. "Any news on his brother?"

"None," Tom says. "I plan on cornering him later, at the reception."

The ceremony is both tasteful and emotive. Augusta looks radiant, and the lace on her dress gives Lavender an ugly case of heavy envy. Her husband looks besotted, and with good reason. The canapés are the best thing Lavender has put in her mouth in months, and the wine has her happily lightheaded for a good while.

But Argo Avery doesn't show up.

"That's strange," Tom says, restless. "He should be here."

"He should," Lavender agrees, popping a tiny salmon pie in her mouth. "He's missing out."

"Are you drunk?" he asks her. He doesn't seem pleased.

Lavender waves his worries away.

"I'm opening the Inner Eye," she tells him. "Your moodiness occludes me."

The Bellchants approach them as they speak. Joyce looks vibrant and happy around her husband, and Lavenders thinks perhaps Gifford isn't such a terrible man.

"You must be the famous Seer," he says. "I see you've met Tom."

"We work front to front," she says as means of explanation.

They shake hands.

Lavender faints.

She comes to, once again, in Tom's arms. She's making a habit of it – and it's certainly not the worst habit she has. He's pulled her away from the mingling guests and conjured a pleasant breeze all around her. In the distance, she can hear a woman sobbing.

"What happened?" she asks.

"A prophecy, I would say. Your eyes went white, and you spoke with a voice that wasn't yours."

"Can you repeat it?"

"Hatred breeds hatred, but blood is thicker," he repeats carefully. "The four are fading, your time will come. You have one month left."

One month left. To live? Most likely. That must be Joyce, crying. How unpleasant, to have her first real prophecy be about death. But then again, where Tom Riddle goes…

Tom finds her another room and has her sit down on a nice couch. He brings her sweetened tea and a piece of chocolate. He covers her with a white, soft blanket. She feels a bit better.

"Four," Tom says. "Aldrich, Argo and now Gifford – we're missing one, I think."

Lavender supposes it makes sense. The number four – four men fading one after the other – has been recurrent when dealing with Tom and his acquaintances.

And Argo hasn't shown up.

"They're all your _friends_ ," she notes.

The inflection she uses on the word makes Tom's eyes glint, but he says nothing. Lavender is convinced she'd find the Dark Mark under any of their sleeves, but she also keeps quiet.

"Yes," Tom agrees. "And I don't like that someone's after them." He looks at her with those dark, enticing eyes. "Will you help me find out who it is, Lavender?"

She's quite certain she doesn't have a choice.

Two days later, Aldrich Avery's body is found. Lavender wouldn't know if it weren't for Tom, who comes early in the morning to tell her the news. He doesn't look sad about his friend's loss, but rather a mix between angry and curious. He asks her to come with him to see the body, and try to foretell the past, the present, the future.

Lavender has seen a lot of bodies – granted, all in that one same night – and isn't apprehensive about it. After work, she follows Tom to the Auror offices. They see Dodderige scowl at them as they pass by, and Mather himself escorts them to the morgue.

"It isn't pretty," he tells her, before opening the door.

"I'm sure I've seen worse," is her answer.

And given how she had to close the eyes of twelve-year-olds in the Battle of Hogwarts, it's probably true.

Two covered bodies lie on wooden tables. From the sizes, she can tell one must be Aldrich and the other that of a child.

"Matilda Walker," Mather tells her. "The girl who went missing."

Even covered with a thin linen, Lavender can tell the girl's body is broken. It isn't a pleasant image. Aldrich's corpse, however, is even worse. It's all bones – the skin sticks to them as if dressing a skeleton.

"He's been sucked dry," Mather says. "Not a drop of fluid left in his body."

It is, as he said, atrocious. But Lavender doesn't gasp or cry or throw up as the men expect; she just walks closer. She doesn't know what can do this to a man, but she's lived in Knockturn Alley for almost a year, and she's picked up a few things from the neighbours.

No fluids means no blood. No blood is always bad news.

"I don't know how you two got access here," Mathers grumbles, "but I'll leave you to it."

"I have good friends," Tom answers, and smiles brightly at him.

Like with clients, it seems the good friends are the rich ones. Mathers leaves, perhaps even more grumpy than he already was, and they're left alone with two unappetizing corpses.

"So?" Tom says.

Lavender unpacks the pipe from her bag – she can't afford to make this prediction lightly. The fumes attune her to the fickler senses, and as she draws tarot cards onto the dry body, she _sees_.

Two cards from the Major Arcana: Justice and The Hanged Man.

Four from the Minor Arcana: the four of wands, the two of swords, the Queen of coins and the King of cups.

"Four wands," Tom says. "Our four friends?"

Lavender doesn't know when they became _her_ friends too, but she nods.

"The enemies," she says, "are the two of swords and the Queen of coins."

"Not the king?" he asks.

"No," Lavender is certain, the _truth_ speaks to her. " _You_ are always the King."

Tom nods, as if that's a knowledge that doesn't faze him, as if he's always known. He probably has.

"And Aldrich here, was hanged for justice," she says.

They leave the morgue. Tom is pensive. He tells her he must speak to Gifford – he must know more than he tells. If the four men are being persecuted for justice, he reasons, he must at least be aware of their crime.

Lavender is pensive too, but for a whole different reason. Aldrich Avery. Daphne Greengrass' grandfather. He shouldn't be dead, dry, in that morgue. He should have lived fifty years more. So what changed? She, Lavender, is the only variable that's different.

She's caused Aldrich's death.

She doesn't know how. She hasn't interacted with him even once, and the one time she met his brother, Aldrich was already missing. But Lavender must have provoked a domino effect – she's influenced someone else, who's influenced a third person, who perhaps killed the man.

It's a disturbing notion.

She also realizes her knowledge of the future isn't foolproof. She doesn't like that one bit.

Tom visits again the following day. He isn't pleased – Gifford is refusing to meet him. Lavender can tell he isn't used to denials. He looks impatient, a tad nervous. She's never seen him this restless. Perhaps it's because she's never seen him lacking this much control over a situation.

"Do you think you could try to find out more, even without him?" he asks her.

"Perhaps," she says. "If I don't," she dares to ask, "will you kill me like you did with Lady Smith?"

She knows that he knows that she knows – he found out as their eyes met above Lady Smith's ridiculous hairdo. Why sidestep the topic?

Tom is taken by surprise. But when he smiles, he looks extremely satisfied.

"Lavender," he shakes his head and lifts a hand to caress her cheek, "you are a gift from the heavens." He takes her hand and places a kiss on its back, "I'd never hurt you." He kisses the tips of her fingers, "I need you."

Is it sad, that this is the most a man has ever wanted her?

She opens a new bottle – she's been wanting to try this Chinese spirit for a while. She glazes into the crystal ball and, despite thinking of Gifford Bellchant, the images repeat. A skull and a snake. Four men fading one after the other. A little girl on a broom.

"A little girl on a broom," Tom repeats, annoyed. "Why? What could a girl –"

And he stops. His eyes flash. He's finally found it.

"Of course," he tells her. "We've been blind, Lavender." That is rather strong insult to throw to a seer. "Do you keep old copies of the Prophet?"

She does. She likes to keep track of things, after all. And the Madam hates getting rid of old stuff.

Tom flips through the pages of year-old editions until he finds the piece he wants. The day after Matilda Walker went missing the Prophet was filled with details. A muggleborn girl. Only twelve. Her parents had lost sight of her amidst Diagon Alley. She hadn't been seen again. The day after, there's a spread on the child. "Quidditch Prodigy Matilda," it's titled. And there she is, swaying happily on a broom.

"You told the Aurors," Tom remembers. "More than one man. A crime of passion."

"Of strong emotion," she remembers. "Hatred?"

Death Eaters have never mingled well with muggleborns. She wonders if Tom hates them all because of his muggle upbringing. An orphanage doesn't sound like a good place to grow in.

"Perhaps," he agrees, thinking it over.

He doesn't ask her how she guessed, although anyone's first instinct might have been to think about rape. Crime of passion. Four men. Little girl. It's the easiest jump to make.

Perhaps Tom's faith in her skills has grown enough for him not to question her.

"The four of them killed the girl," he deduces. "And now someone's seeking revenge."

Justice.

"But who?" Lavender wonders. "Her parents are muggles."

Tom doesn't react to the word. No moue of distaste, no tightening of shoulders. The words say nothing to him. Is it indifference, he has, instead of hatred?

"The two swords?" Tom proposes. "Swords are muggle means of fighting – Her parents."

Ah, of course, the enemies they're looking for.

"And the Queen of coins." Lavender understands at once. "We just need to find the Queen."

Tom nods. The girl's parents can't do much on their own, not without magic. The Queen is the key to their mystery.

"And we must find Gifford, and whomever the fourth is," he says, with a deceptively calm voice. His eyes flash red. "They will pay for lying to me."

"And for murdering a little girl?" Lavender suggests.

Tom sighs.

"If they must."


	5. A Dash Ahead

**A Dash Ahead**

Argo Avery's body turns up much quicker than his brother's did. They find it in a muggle dump on the outskirts of Leeds, which Lavender thinks is rather fitting. She hopes he knew where he was going right before dying.

Gifford Bellchant hears the news and disappears.

Joyce comes crying the morning after and begs Lavender to find out where he is. She'll do anything, she promises, pay anything, give her anything she wants. But what Lavender wants is for Joyce's sons to not grow up as Death Eaters, and so she lies.

"He's hidden himself too well," she tells Joyce. "Even the Inner Eye is blind to his whereabouts."

Augusta comes hours later and has to help Lavender comfort the soon-to-be widow. She's distraught. She doesn't understand what's going on. Lavender doesn't tell her – Joyce will be happier without facing the truth.

In the end, Augusta offers to let Joyce stay in her own house. She can't be left alone with house-elves in her state, and Lavender's tiny flat isn't an option for their standards. Besides, it's a good thing that they leave. She has plans of her own.

Lavender takes out the wedding band she's removed from Joyce's tremulous fingers as she was sobbing against her chest. She uses the fumes. She inhales _six_ times – she's in a rush, and she wants to succeed.

She considers getting Tom, but forsakes the idea. Even if he's angry at them, the Queen of coins will make them pay a bigger price. She has no qualms about leaving them to their fates.

The crystal ball lets her see a cottage at the edge of a cliff. The bones, always precise, fall in an arrangement of letters that reads "Flint". As she stands to get a read with the tarot cards, she stumbles. The world spins around her and she can't tell her hands from the tip of her nose. She walks – or perhaps crawls, who knows – to the Madam's bathroom and throws up.

Before doing anything else, she has to rest for six hours. She hears colours that don't exist and smells terrifying screams. They're one of the worst six hours of her life.

When she feels better she heads for Odette Greengrass' house. Her maiden name was Flint, and so she will know where to find the cottage. Odette opens the door and the look on her face tells Lavender she's not looking well.

"It's urgent," she tells her. "Flint Cottage, on the edge of a cliff. Where is it?"

Odette has always been fascinated by the art of Divination. Hearing the word _urgent_ , and knowing she can help, she doesn't hesitate. She leads Lavender to the Floo and hands her the powder.

"Small Flint Cottage," she instructs her.

Before Lavender is swallowed by a flash of green flames, she has the time to think that they must also have a Large one. She envies the rich, sometimes.

She steps out of the fireplace and into a hall that is, by no means, small. Seconds after she hears a step to her left and raises a shield on instinct. She's fast – she spent eight months running away from the Carrows and their lackeys; she won't be caught unawares.

She ducks to let a bombarda fly over her head. She throws a tripping jinx that makes Gifford stumble. He casts a dark hex as he falls, but Lavender's shield stands strong. She has him at wandpoint and sitting on his arse in a matter of seconds.

It's not so easy when the girl is eighteen, it seems.

"You," he says. He looks both relieved and scared. "You found me."

"Of course," she says. Her world wobbles a bit, but he doesn't need to know.

"Tell Joyce I won't come back," he says. "I don't want to die."

"I won't tell her anything. She won't even know I came. I just want one thing, Gifford." It feels good to use his first name; she's sick of using surnames as if the bastards are above herself. "Who's the fourth?"

In retrospective, it's sad how he doesn't even hesitate. But what can one expect, from that kind of man?

"Ertan Rosier," he rushes to say. "Rosier – It wasn't even my idea! It was the Averys, and then me and Rosier just followed. I didn't know it would end that way."

And how, she almost asks, did he expect kidnapping a twelve-year-old girl would end?

She doesn't, however. It'd be a waste of her time.

"I know what you did," she tells him. She certainly doesn't need the details. She'll spare Matilda this last bit of privacy. "And I know you will die for it."

She apparates away from the front door, because she doesn't want to give Odette any unnecessary explanations. She's sure she'll have to, eventually, but she'd rather do it on a day she feels fully awake.

However, she can't quite elude the explanation-giving. When she reaches her flat, she finds Tom waiting inside.

"You need to upgrade your wards," he tells her. And then, more urgent, "What happened?"

He's up and by her side in an instant, and only then does Lavender notice her nose is bleeding. The front of her dress – one of the good ones, damn it – is tainted red. No wonder Odette looked green.

"I abused the fumes," she tells him. "But I know the fourth now."

Surprisingly, he doesn't ask who it is.

"Never do this again," he says. "You must take better care of yourself."

She's confused by this statement. Tom's the one who enlisted her to help find out the truth. She hasn't done it for him though; not fully. She's invested now. Her predictions have swirled around this crime since she first stepped into Madam Cassandra's shop.

"But didn't you want to help your friends?" she asks him.

"Lavender," he chastises, dropping a kiss to her forehead, "I would let them all burn to save only you."

She doesn't feel exactly reassured.

He gives her a highly sweetened cup of tea and washes her face with a conjured warm cloth. He's so kind she sometimes has trouble remembering who he is. Perhaps she'll never fully reconcile his two identities in her head.

They both sit on her bed and she lets him cuddle her. It's warm and nice to be this close to someone. She doesn't delude herself – she knows he values mostly her predictions. But her skills are also a part of her, and it feels good to be recognized for what she's good at.

It's never happened to her before.

They sleep on the same bed that night. Fully clothed – Lavender's wet dreams don't come to life yet. She rests against his chest and he throws an arm around her waist and it feels perfect. Terribly, dangerously, worryingly perfect.

She was an idiot when she fell for Ron, but what she's doing now is suicidal.

"So who was it?" Tom finally asks in the morning, as he butters her scones.

"Ertan Rosier," she answers.

"Ertan," he repeats, surprised. "I wouldn't have said – Then again, he always followed Avery everywhere."

"Will you warn him?" she asks.

"He's not dumb," Tom says. "He must already know."

"So, will you help him?"

Tom licks butter from his thumb as he considers the answer. Lavender feels her mouth dry and all the wetness travel somewhere else. It should be a crime, to be this gorgeous.

"He didn't come to me for help," he says. "I'm quite miffed about that. So probably not."

He locks eyes with her then, and his gaze is both warm and playful.

"Would you want me to?" he asks her.

Not really. She didn't help Gifford either. These men deserve what they're getting.

"I want to know who the Queen is," she says instead.

Tom is pleased.

"Me too," he admits. "So we must find Ertan, after all."

They still take their time finishing breakfast. And afterwards, Tom helps her down the narrow, wonky stairs of her flat. He sets her coat on her shoulders. He holds the door open to help her step out.

She's half-flattered, half-about to tell him to cut it out.

Ertan Rosier has locked himself in his own house. Tight, ancient wards and thick walls; half a dozen house-elves ready to defend the premises. However, his sister Eglantine sees Tom waiting behind the fence and lets them in.

"I hope you can bring my brother back to reason," she tells Tom. "He's gone mad. He won't let anyone in or out – he'll be so angry with me now."

Tom kisses the back of her hand and she flushes.

"Worry not," he tells her, "I shall save you."

Lavender really hopes she doesn't look like Eglantine when Tom is wooing her. In any case, she doesn't feel threatened – the Rosier girl can't give Tom what he wants.

They climb upstairs and come to stand in front of Ertan's room. It's locked and barred and shining with protective spells. Tom huffs – they must be hard to take down. Lavender takes a seat on a comfortable Bergère and she watches Tom at work. He uses spells she's never even heard of, and with an ease that would make even Hermione Granger turn green with envy.

No wonder Lord Voldemort was so hard to take down.

Lavender doesn't have a problem with waiting and letting him do what he's best at. It's not like he can see the future, after all. She's rather pleased with her own skill set, thank you very much.

It takes him the most of an hour to take the door down. And when he does, he's no longer in a good mood. Tom rather dislikes being made to wait. They walk in to find Ertan cowering in a corner.

"I didn't want to do it," he says. "I didn't want to."

Tom walks until he's at a good distance to crouch in front of him. The Grim flickers on and off his back.

"Do I look like I care?" Tom asks.

Ertan whimpers. Tom sighs.

"You hid the truth from me," he says, his voice as polite as when he offers Lavender tea. "You know how much I dislike that. Don't you, Ertan?"

Ertan answers what sounds like a weak litany of pleads. He begs, he cries, he promises.

"Tom," he implores, "save me."

"What do you think, Lavender?" he asks. "Should I?"

The sight of Ertan Rosier on his knees is miserable. But Lavender isn't that weak – she wonders how much the little girl begged, and what Rosier said to her. She's probably better off not knowing.

"Whatever for?" she answers.

Tom laughs.

"I think I'm going to marry you," he tells her.

Lavender frowns.

"That's only if I say yes," she reminds him.

He looks both playful and smug and she tries not to look like her insides are melting. She can take a bit of gruesomeness, but she's never been too strong against a pretty face.

And then Ertan lets out a scream that shakes the foundations of the house. Tom rushes to cast a silencing charm and turns to find Ertan contorting on the floor. The fluids slowly leave his body and go, apparently, nowhere. He's dried from the inside as he thrashes and scratches his surely expensive carpets until he draws his last breath.

That certainly was unexpected.

"What was that?" Lavender asks Tom. He knows more about dark spells that she does.

He approaches the body with caution and touches one of his dried arms with the tip of his wand. He looks almost excited at the sight.

"I've never seen anything like this," he says.

A loud gasp behind their backs has them turn in an instant. Lavender's stunner hits Eglantine square in the chest. She drops like a corpse.

"Impressive," Tom says. And he really means it.

Lavender smiles. She might not use flashy spells, but her war-honed reflexes have yet to disappoint her. If Tom expects a damsel in distress just because she likes to match the colour of her shoes with the shade of her lipstick, he'll be sorely disappointed.

"But of course," she says, returning her wand to its holster.

And when they turn around to face Ertan's corpse, they find it's missing. Lavender actually blinks and looks around – where did it go? There's no one else in the room. They were distracted for only a couple seconds. What happened?

Tom stares at the spot where Ertan just laid, and seems disappointed.

"There goes our lead," he complains.

Lavender shares the feeling, but she's pleased to see Gifford won't manage to escape his fate. He can hide, but his enemy is invisible, incorporeal, ethereal. He is doomed, just like she prophesized.

She is a true seer, after all.

Tom obliviates Eglantine and the house-elves, and they leave the house. Tom insists on escorting her home, which is silly – she's lived in Knoctrun Alley on her own for a long time, and she's survived.

He vacillates on her doorstep. He grimaces, as if stopping himself, then wishes her a good night. Lavender rolls her eyes. They've just let a man die – how can sleeping together be any more inappropriate?

She pulls him in – a hand on his curls, as soft as she dreamed of, and another around his tie – and snogs him until he's out of breath. She's already doomed, she knows. She's allowed Tom Riddle to kill a woman for greed, she's lied to Joyce to let her husband die, she's witnessed Rosier fade away and stunned his sister.

Her conscience is tainted anyway. She might as well get the hot guy inside her knickers.

Tom returns her kisses with fervour, with a heat that Ron never had for her. His hands travel her body as he pushes her hard against a wall and Lavender moans loud. She likes it a bit rough – she won't break from a little push, and soft caresses only tickle.

She goes down on her knees and she's certain that Tom wants her for at least two things now. He grabs her hair and he grunts and it's the sexiest sound she's ever heard. He calls out her name and he says she's the best and he promises to marry her again.

"Don't say that in bed," she asks him. "It's off-putting."

She's experienced enough to have been proposed to a couple times, and yet she's still unmarried.

"But you _are_ the best," he says. "You didn't need to do that."

"I only do what I want," she tells him.

And it's true – she enjoys having a man in her mouth. It makes her feel powerful, to undo him with just a twist of her tongue. Even more so, if that man is Tom Riddle.

His eyes flicker red again, but this time it's hardly scary. He drops her to the bed and he returns the favour until she has to beg him to stop. He likes to be begged to, she soon learns. She supposes she can humour him.

The sex is good. Not the best she's ever had, because it's their first time together, and they can certainly improve. But his tongue in her folds still ranks within her top-five orgasms. One must admit, however, that his handsomeness gives him an unfair advantage – Lavender was dripping before he got even close.

They rest on her bed afterwards, fully sated. Tom kisses her hands again and whispers sweets nothings she doesn't allow herself to believe. He can tell, too, that she doesn't.

"You'll see," he promises. "I won't let you go."


	6. And Don't Look Back

**And Don't Look Back**

Tom lounges on her couch, a spread of old newspapers all around him. News on Matilda's disappearance are highlighted; circled in red ink. He's determined to follow this mystery to the end, even if he has to do it the old-fashioned way.

Lavender has offered to help on several occasions, but Tom is adamant she rest.

"There'll be more important issues to look into," he says. "Don't overexert yourself to satisfy my curiosity," he tells her.

"It's _me_ who is curious," she reminds him.

"Then I'll satisfy you," he promises.

And they have to take a break and head straight to bed, because he just shouldn't say these things.

Tom's investigation advances slowly. There isn't much anyone knows about Matilda Walker's parents, and they're nowhere to be found. He really, really doesn't want to resort to muggle means – the so called "police".

"Do you hate muggles?" she asks him one day.

"I hate weakness," he answers.

It's both unexpected and strangely fitting. Tom despises uselessness and disdains ordinariness. He wants Lavender because she can do what he can't – in Tom's book, that is the highest possible merit.

"I've never met a muggle," she admits. "But the most talented witch I ever knew was muggleborn," she tells him.

"A friend of yours?" he asks, not raising his head from the newspapers.

"Not really," she says. Because she and Hermione had a tumultuous relationship in their best moments, and once fought for the same man. They were just too different to understand each other.

He finds her answer amusing.

"You're always so honest," he says.

It's not true at all, but it's better if he thinks so.

Lavender and Tom spend most nights together, and open up their respective shops in the morning. With the excuse of convincing Madam Cassandra, he visits her often – Mr Burke is very interested, after all.

Tom actually manages to run into her, at last. The Madam comes out from behind her curtains and surprises him. He's learnt to not expect her.

"Are you still charging him?" Madam Cassandra asks her.

Tom can't tell at all, but the Madam sounds terribly amused.

"Madam Vablatsky," he says. "A pleasure meeting you. I'm here to offer you a deal on –"

"No, you're not," she says, and walks past him to pick up one of the tiniest boxes on the top shelves.

Tom sighs.

"As expected of Lavender's grand aunt," he says, and bows lightly.

"Blood is thick," the Madam lies.

"The Inner Eye is stronger when passed down," Lavender agrees.

Tom gives up and sits down. They all know he's here for Lavender now. Well, all but Mr Burke, a fact the Madam finds hilarious.

"Old fool," she says. "He's never had an eye as good as he likes to think," she then tells Tom.

He smiles, charming, at her. It seems Madam Cassandra can feel his darkness too.

A week later, on their day off – blessed Mondays – they're cuddling on Lavender's couch. Tom is, as always, re-reading old articles. He's patient when it comes to research. He flips pages and pages with a cup of tea by his side and only pauses to drop a kiss to Lavender's forehead when she rests her cheek on his shoulder.

Then he flips another page, and Lavender sees a picture of Matilda's father for the first time.

_Huh_ , she thinks.

William Walker is by no means a remarkable man, but he was desperate enough when Lavender met him to have made a lasting impression.

It's the man who, months ago, asked her to let him speak to his daughter. "I need to talk to her. Please – _please_ help me talk to her." And she, silly Lavender, sent him to the necromancer hag two streets down.

It seems the old thing might have other skills, besides speaking to the dead.

"I know who it is," she says. "The Queen."

She glances at Tom, who looks thoroughly impressed. Well, it won't hurt to let him think she's _that_ good a seer.

"What would I do without you?" he asks, reverent.

Lavender knows _exactly_ what he'd do without her.

"Not a single good thing," she answers.

Tom laughs.

They leave immediately. Tom follows Lavender as she walks towards the hag's shop – it must certainly look striking, in his eyes, that she can tell the exact place.

A few clients mistake the hag's shop with hers, and so she's used to giving directions. She's never been inside before, but when she stands in front she can see the similarities. It's exactly as the Madam's business was before Lavender prettied it up: decadently dusty.

She walks in, and Tom follows her with heightened curiosity. Their luck has it that they find William Walker inside, dropping a considerable bag of galleons on the counter. For one single instant, Lavender considers changing her business to necromancy. But, she decides, she should stick to her talents.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she tells William, and takes his hand within hers. "Only one left now." And Gifford will follow soon.

His face is hollow as he nods in acknowledgement.

"Thank you," he tells her.

And he means for leading him to the hag, but he doesn't say it. Good, she'd rather not have Tom know. He'd just find it droll – but she wants him to be awed, not amused.

"Seer girl," says the hag, coming out to view.

She looks like an old woman that forgot to die when it was her turn some two-hundred years ago. She's not comely, to the physical eye. To the Inner one, she looks even worse – a blob of inhuman, shifting darkness.

"Have you come to banish me?" she asks, looking at Tom.

"Not at all," he says, approaching the counter. "I just want to know how you did it."

Lavender sits with William Walker and asks him questions about the muggle world while Tom and the hag discuss a price. William tells her of discovering magic, of trying to fit into a world that doesn't want them and which they can't understand. Of failing to protect their little girl. Of not being taken seriously by wizarding authorities.

Lavender thinks she can understand eleven-year-old Hermione a bit better now. Perhaps, she thinks, she had it harder than she'd initially assumed.

"Wicca is the only one who would listen to us," William tells her. "We paid her, of course – But she let us talk to Matilda, you know? After she was gone. Our little girl –" his voice breaks. "She could tell us the names of the men who hurt her."

And then Wicca had taken care of the rest. Whatever curse she used, it's a rare one. To Lavender, it appeared inescapable – the hag is a fearsome being, indeed. No wonder Tom is so interested.

"They suffered," Lavender assures him. "I saw."

He nods.

A few steps away, Wicca shows Tom an old book on blood magic. He busily takes notes as she speaks. He looks like Christmas has come early, and Lavender can't help but look on fondly.

"You _lot_ have thick skins," William tells her, looking a bit green.

Tom and Wicca aren't shy with the gory details.

"No," Lavender says, "we're not the norm."

William looks at her, eyes dull and dry and empty.

"Could you read my future?"

Lavender takes pity on the poor man. She won't even charge him. She asks the hag if she's got something strong to drink. The old thing looks at her like she's a foolish, little child. She spats something at her in a foreign language that Lavender takes to mean her liquor is, indeed, strong.

The bottle she hands her sublimates green fumes when open. Lavander hopes it's drinkable for humans. She takes a swig, and she sees stars. It's good stuff. She gives William tea – with a drop of the liquor, because he can certainly use it.

She turns his cup once.

"Plough," she sees, "hard times, a struggle."

She turns it again.

"Stars," she says, "hope."

And a third time.

"Oak. Strength in a long life," she says. She looks at him, then. "You'll make it through this."

He thanks her, looking more sad than relieved. William leaves the shop and Lavender goes to join Tom and the hag. He's convinced her to let him borrow the book, and looks pleased with himself.

"Where do you buy this?" she asks Wicca, holding her green bottle.

"You're tough, for a little human girl," the hag says. "You can buy it from me."

Greedy old hag, only thinking of profit. But well, Lavender can somewhat understand.

They leave the shop, both with their respective prizes. Lavender thinks she should start charging the hag a commission – she's brought her a lot of good business.

Tom takes her hand as they stroll through the unsavoury streets around Knockturn. It's a terrible neighbourhood, but Lavender's learnt to find beauty in it. In the way the Old Magics live, hiding in those dirty, dark corners. In the way everyone who truly needs something finds a solution behind a rundown door.

There's more power flowing through these alleys than most think.

Tom brings her to his flat for the first time. It's not hard to guess why he's never done so before. It's practically bare, unlived and uninviting. It's not Tom's home – just a place to sleep in. Knowing him, he probably thinks it's temporary. Tom aspires to more.

There's a room hidden at the back, though, that's crowded with rare books. Lavender walks in and is displeased when not a single one deals in her arts.

"I, too, know my limitations," he tells her.

She supposes he has a point. She'll have to buy her own books.

On top of a desk lays a single, leather-bound diary. Lavender doesn't need to approach it to see the sevens. She frowns. Tom picks it up with nostalgic fondness.

"You don't approve," he says.

"I don't know what that is," she admits. "But I told you to stay away from sevens."

Tom laughs.

"I will," he says. "I trust your judgement – I'll get rid of it."

Lavender really hopes he does.

"So what's a good number for me?" Tom asks.

"One," she doesn't hesitate. "You're the King, remember?"

His eyes gleam red. He's pleased with her answer.

"One," he says. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps there's more strength in the whole than there is in seven pieces."

It sounds reasonable to her. Why split something that works whole? That's what she tells him, and he laughs again.

"Why indeed," he says. "I'll have to find another way."

Lavender is confused.

"To what?" she asks him.

"Ah – you'll see," he assures her. "I plan to share, after all."

Well, if she'll see then she'll see. She's never had a problem with waiting. What she has a problem with, however, is the state of Tom's flat. She can't stand the sight of such emptiness – it reminds her of when she arrived to the forties with nothing to her name.

"You need to redecorate," she tells him, "or I'm not coming back."

"Why bother?" he asks. "Let's just move to your flat."

She shakes her head.

"It's too small for two. It'd be cramped."

"Then to a new one," he suggests. "The two of us."

Well, with both their salaries, they could afford something decent. It's not a half-bad idea.

"Sure," she says. "Why not."

They practically live together already, anyway. It's nice to have someone to come home to, and no one can deny Tom would make one delightful roommate. He'd make better decoration than anything she owns, at the very least.

And she does like the way he looks at her.

"Let's get married then," he says.

Huh? She doesn't remember agreeing to that.

"Married? I'm too young for that," she says, waving the idea away.

Tom is taken aback.

"Live together… without getting married?" he asks slowly, as if he isn't sure he understood her.

Ah, of course, the dreadful forties.

"Yes," she confirms. "We've done worse things," she reminds him.

Tom frowns. It's easy to see he's not convinced by the idea. He gives up, for the moment. But Lavender knows he'll bring it up again.

"Worse things," he says, "whatever could you be talking about?"

Lavender snorts.

"You're a terrible man," she says.

"I am," he agrees. "Do you mind?"

Does she? It's a good question. She minds when little girls get murdered. She minds wars fought by children. She minds brutish cruelty and power in the hands of talentless idiots like the Carrows. She doesn't want a world like the one she comes from.

"I don't like your friends," she summarizes.

Tom nods.

"They'll change," he promises. "Or else."

Lavender sighs. She supposes the key to cohabitation is compromise.

"I want windows facing a nice street," she says. Tom is confused. "In our new house, I mean."

"Windows," he repeats. "Anything else?"

"A bigger shower," she adds. "I'll adapt to the rest."

Tom laughs again and, as always, it's a sound that makes her melt.

"You'll have the biggest shower in London," he promises.

She laughs now.

"Don't make promises you can't deliver."

Tom sits next to her and takes her hand. He caresses her fingertips with his lips and drops a kiss in the middle of her palm.

"I never do," he promises.

She knows he's telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm posting one day earlier, because I don't know where I'll be tomorrow. Better early than late, right?
> 
> I'm considering a sequel from Tom's point of view, showing how they live from here on. I like this story, despite the weirdness, and I think I'd like to show more of them. In any case, I won't post it until it's fully written either. Maybe I'll do it as a separate fic.


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